He never bleedin' listens, Mrs Lovett thought, as Sweeney stared out the window, probably imagining all sorts of tortures to visit on that damn judge of his. Honestly, he spent more time Lord knew how many years in the past than he did paying attention to what was actually going on.
Mrs Lovett sighed. Clearly, she wasn't going to get anywhere, not with him in this mood. She'd even suggested putting flowers in his room, in the last-ditch hope that the threat of actual cheerfulness would at least get a response out of him.
He probably didn't even notice she was gone, she thought, deliberately making as much noise as possible going down the stairs.
Several cockroaches fled at the approach of their nemesis, but a quick bang of the rolling pin got rid of most of them. Mrs Lovett set about making up a fresh batch of pastry, thwacking her rolling pin down on the benchtop.
He never – thwack – bleedin' – thwack – listens – THWACK.
The table juddered under the force of the last blow, and the pastry was flicked into the air. It came down just on the edge of the table and teetered there for one brief moment before flopping down onto the floor.
Mrs Lovett sighed, gave up on that particular batch of pastry, and started on a fresh sheet.
Sweeney emerged from his room and wandered out the door, muttering something about shopping, although what he could possibly be shopping for Mrs Lovett had no idea. Something to clean his precious razors with, most likely, she thought. Or a new shirt. Heaven knew he needed one; it didn't seem to matter how many times she soaked his clothes, they only lasted a week or so, and then the bloodstains started to show.
She finished her batch of pastry and reached for the coriander, but her hand met thin air. She muttered a not particularly ladylike word, grabbed her basket and left to buy some more herbs, and maybe she would make good on her threat to buy flowers for Mr T. Heaven knew that dingy little room could use a bit of colour, she didn't know how he kept attracting customers up there, gloomy little dump that it was.
When she eventually returned to the shop, having been waylaid by that awful Mrs Mooney, the room seemed subtly different. She frowned for a second, confused, then saw a small vase of daisies sitting on the table.
Well, what do you know. Maybe he does listen. Once in a while.